The Scarlet Blade
by Hellinbrand
Summary: Pre-BDM. Mal is framed as the swashbuckling, anti-Alliance folk hero known as the Scarlet Blade. It's up to his crew to rescue him and uncover the Blade's true identity before Mal is hanged for a crime that, for once, he did not commit.
1. Chapter 1

Mal sat back on the bench and let the gentle, swaying motion of the wagon rock him into a waking doze. It was cool in the gorge; a welcome relief from the baking sun out on the flats. The trail ran straight and smooth between orange, sandstone cliffs. Overhead, an eagle circled: a black speck against the painfully blue sky.

Beside Mal sat Jayne, cradling a rifle. He looked calm but, beneath the brim of his sunhat, his eyes were scanning the trail ahead for the telltale signs of a waiting ambush party. Zoe was perched in the back, behind the cargo, her carbine resting on her lap.

Mal did not understand why the mayor of Bodie had insisted on hiring three guards for one wagon. The badlands of Tiger's Eye had a reputation for banditry but Mal had been taking jobs on and off there for years and he had yet to encounter any. Although, he thought, on a barren world like Tiger's Eye, the water pump they were carrying was probably worth more than a wagon full of jewel encrusted tiaras. It would be a tempting target for any gang.

Mal would have preferred to fly the pump into Bodie aboard _Serenity _but, with the new mining settlement nestled among sheer cliffs, it was much easier to approach on foot. _Serenity's _'mule' was too small to carry the pump, so Mal had hired a two-horse wagon back in Calico; Tiger Eye's sole spaceport. The rest of the crew were remaining aboard ship while Mal, Zoe and Jayne drove the pump over to Bodie. It would be a two day journey: a day to there and a day back.

It was not the most lucrative job they had ever worked but it had one saving grace: it allowed Inara to engage an affluent client. _Serenity _had been working far into the black over the past months and Inara had complained bitterly of the damage this was having on her trade. Mal had accepted the Bodie job to keep the peace, though he always felt uneasy when Inara was away on a 'business trip'.

The phrase made Mal pause. Inara was never euphemistic about her work, so why was he being so evasive? He had known her for well over a year now; why could he still not accept that she was a prostitute? An expensive, high class prostitute, granted, with all the grace and skill that Companion training could endow, but she still slept with people for money.

Stop it; Mal told himself, there is no sense in thinking like this. He had been down this train of thought times without count and it always left him feeling bitter. He knew that there could be nothing between them, ever. So why did he feel so jealous of her?

Mal's attention snapped back to the present at the sound of a rifle being cocked beside him. He turned to look at Jayne, who nodded ahead. Loose stones and thorn bushes had been heaped up on the left of the trail, against the cliff, where one wall of rock folded in to another. It was sloppy work; the heap of debris intended to camouflage the narrow pass would fool only the most inexperienced of guards. To Jayne's expert eyes, it was like a sign reading 'Ambush party waiting here'. Mal turned in his seat.

"Zoe you'd better – "

Rifle fire crackled behind him. Wood snapped and splintered as bullets struck the wagon. Mal caught a glimpse of three gun barrels glinting from under trapdoors concealed beneath the trail. He twisted round and whipped the horses into a canter.

Zoe's carbine barked but Mal knew that the marksmen would have already slid back into the safety of their 'spider holes'. Beside him on the driver's bench, Jayne was turning back and forth as he scanned the gorge for the next attack.

Jayne's rifle flashed in the sunlight as he twisted it up and fired, all in the space of second. Mal heard a cry, looked up, and saw a man tumbling from the cliff top. Jayne turned to his left, aiming at the man's partner on the opposite cliff, but his shot went wide. The man returned fire. The bullet whizzed past Mal and struck the opposite cliff face in a shower of orange dust.

He heard voices whooping ahead. What Mal had taken for dummy camouflage, intended to draw attention away from the marksmen, was now revealed as a double feint. The thorn bushes had been torn aside to allow a party of mounted men though onto the trail. They were typical frontiersmen, dressed in tarnished riding gear and wide-brimmed hats. They came towards the wagon in an untidy knot, firing their pistols into the air and bellowing like apes.

Mal whipped the horses to a gallop. Shifting the reins to one hand, he drew his pistol with the other. Jayne was already firing at the riders but the wagon was swaying wildly now and accurate shooting was difficult. Mal did not even attempt to aim. He simply emptied his magazine towards the oncoming riders and trusted to luck.

For once, his luck held. One of the foremost riders slumped forward across his horse's neck, toppled from the saddle and under the beast's hooves. Horse and rider went down into a thrashing, screaming mass. The other riders scattered; afraid that they too would be brought down by the fallen horse.

Mal stowed his pistol, seized the reins and hauled the wagon to the right, past the dying horse. The riders, faced with several tonnes of galloping horse and wagon, darted out of their path. Their confusion was short lived however. As soon as the wagon had passed, they regrouped and gave chase, pistols snapping and barking all the while.

Jayne vaulted over the backrest and into the wagon proper. Taking cover behind the pump, he and Zoe poured fire into their pursuers. The noise in the gorge was deafening: the drumming hooves; rumbling wheels; the whip crack sound of the guns; the whistling bullets.

Zoe gave a cry. Mal turned. Zoe was on her back, blood pumping from a wound in her thigh. Jayne dropped his rifle to drag her behind the pump. The riders spurred their horses forward, coming alongside the wagon itself. Zoe, one hand clutching her bleeding leg, raised her carbine with her free hand and shot one clean through the shoulder.

Jayne made a grab for his rifle. One of the riders threw a lasso around his shoulders. Jayne seized the rope with both hands and wrenched the man from his saddle with a cry. Another rider flung a lasso over him. Jayne turned to try and grab the rope, missing his footing and tumbled over the side of the wagon.

Even as Jayne disappeared into the dust, Mal was lashing the reins to a peg on the backrest. He rose and turned to see that one of the riders had jumped from his horse onto the back of the wagon. Mal seized Jayne's rifle and swung for the man's jaw. The man threw his arms up and toppled from the wagon with a cry.

Mal raised the rifle to his shoulder, turned left and right, but found no targets. The riders had dropped back behind the wagon again, still keeping pace, but making no effort to come alongside. Mal was about to fire at the centremost when the knot of horsemen parted and a bizarre figure galloped through. Mal knew he should fire but he was too shocked to do anything but stand and stare.

The man rode a magnificent white stallion; a beast from song and fairy tale. He was dressed in red, from his shining red boots to the red plume in his wide-brimmed red hat. A red cape streamed out behind him like a banner. His face was hidden beneath a red mask. He rode up alongside the wagon and, still at a full gallop, leapt from his horse onto the wagon as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

It was only then that Mal roused himself from his stupor. He raised the rifle again, aiming to put a bullet in the man's chest. The red man threw his cape back and, to Mal's further astonishment, drew a sword from his side.

"Oh come on! Who uses a sword?!" Mal cried.

The man's speed was incredible. He stepped forward, pushed the rifle aside with his free hand, and smashed the pommel of his sword into Mal's temple. Mal fell like a pole axed ox, over the wagon's side and into the dirt.

_Take my love, take my land_  
_Take me where I cannot stand_  
_I don't care, I'm still free_  
_You can't take the sky from me_

_Take me out to the black_  
_Tell them I ain't comin' back_  
_Burn the land and boil the sea_  
_You can't take the sky from me_

_There's no place I can be_  
_Since I found Serenity_  
_But you can't take the sky from me..._

_The Scarlet Blade _

Chapter 1

The red rider watched as his men carried the unconscious forms from the wagon and laid them out beside the trail.

He turned in the saddle and addressed his deputy:

"You remember where you're to leave the wagon?"

"Yes, sir."

The red rider nodded. He had paid the men well. They would do the job properly.

Satisfied, he turned his horse about and set off along the gorge at a brisk trot. Behind him, his men were already busy turning the wagon around.

He passed out of the gorge and onto the desolate flatlands, suitable for neither grazing nor farming. The narrow dirt track ran straight towards the horizon. The red rider smiled beneath his mask and spurred his horse to a canter. She was a superb beast, capable of maintaining that pace for hours. The red rider almost flew across the plain. His red cape billowed out behind him, snapping and twirling in the dust. The sun sank in a blaze of orange, drawing night after her, and still he rode on.

He rode through farming country, the fields bare after the harvest. The lanes were empty and the rider flew on, a dark shape speeding beneath the stars.

Dawn was breaking as he approached the hill. A solitary rock, it rose sheer from the plains. The lights of a great house twinkled on its summit. A stately gate of wrought iron guarded the driveway up to its front doors but the rider chose to avoid it. He skirted the foot of the hill, hugging the dark cliffs. Ahead was an ornamental lake, fed by a waterfall. The rider dismounted here and led his weary horse along the shore until he passed under the waterfall. Here was a narrow path, cut into the rock, just wide enough for a man leading a horse to pass through. Torches in iron brackets lit the rider's way.

The path ended in a great cave, lit by more torches. The rider's first concern was for his horse. Her stable was in a smaller cave off the main one. Only when she was unsaddled, washed and fed did the rider finally attend to his own needs. His sword he hung on a rack of similar weapons. He undressed, folded and stored his clothes in a wardrobe and dresser, both made from red mahogany. After much deliberation, he dressed in a mauve dressing gown and matching slippers. He then crossed to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine.

Still carrying his glass, he climbed the spiral staircase at the rear of the cave. A doorway led him into a narrow corridor, lined with spy holes. A concealed door brought him out into a much wider corridor, tastefully furnished with dark wood panelling. His slippers made no sound as he crossed the thick carpet to the double doors opposite. Taking a key from his dressing gown pocket, he let himself in.

The room beyond was dark; the curtains were still closed. A woman was asleep in the double bed. The rider crossed softly to her side and placed his empty wineglass on the dresser. He paused to admire her sleeping form, drinking in her beauty. The bedsheets had slipped from her during the night, revealing the curve of her back and her smooth, olive skin.

The rider bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. She stirred.

"Andres…?"

"Shh," he said, placing a finger to her lips, "It's alright, sweet Inara."

* * *

Mal, Zoe and Jayne finally stumbled into Calico at evening the next day. A tinker on his way down from the mining settlements had offered them a lift to the town limits. Now they moved slowly along Calico's dusty streets, Mal and Jayne supporting the injured Zoe between them. Mal's crude first aid skills, learned in haste on the battlefield, had fashioned an effective tourniquet that had stemmed the bleeding. The main risk now was infection: there had been no way of keeping the wound clean on the long hike across the flatlands.

Mal knew that Zoe would be grateful to get away with a fever. He had been amazed to wake up beside the trail, disarmed and with no wagon in sight, and yet still alive. Either those bandits were squeamish or highly eccentric. Most would have just cut their throats.

_Serenity _was lying in the wide, shallow bowl on the edge of town, surrounded by a fence, that served as Calico's landing area. As they passed through the open gates, Mal could see that Inara's shuttle was still missing: she was still attending to her client. The ship's boarding ramp was lowered but there was no sign of any of the crew. Mal paused. He would have expected someone to come running out to them. Why was there no lookout watching for their return? As they drew closer to _Serenity _his sense of foreboding grew. His veteran's instinct was rumbling dangerously but everything appeared still and quiet.

"Hello? Anyone home?" he called up the ramp. The hold appeared deserted.

He heard the sound of running feet behind him.

"Hands up!" a man shouted, his order underscored by the sound of guns being cocked.

Mal, Jayne and Zoe turned, their hands raised. A line of men and women in the dull grey uniform of the Alliance militia were standing in front of the ship, rifles levelled at them. More militiamen were appearing from behind the other landed spaceships, heading towards _Serenity._

"Captain Reynolds, you are hereby bound by law!" cried a voice behind them.

Mal turned once again. A tall, aristocratic man in an immaculate officer's uniform was striding across the hold towards them. A file of militiamen followed him, shepherding the rest of _Serenity's _crew between them.

"At last we meet face to face," the officer said to Mal. He had the dark, aquiline face and the arrogant bearing that told of a long lineage and 'good breeding'. He wore a sabre at his side, which was unusual: gentlemen rarely carried swords outside of a duel.

"Excuse me?" said Mal, bewildered.

"What, no quip? No _bon mot_?" sneered the officer, "Where is your dazzling repartee now? I would have expected better from the Scarlet Blade!"

Mal stared, open mouthed.

"From the -- _what_?!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Mal gaped at the officer. He could not have been more surprised if he had been accused of being the Easter bunny.

"Excuse me?"

"Pah! Do not try to deny it," said the officer. He clicked his fingers. A militiaman came forward, bearing a bundle of clothes. He dropped it at the officer's feet and unrolled it. There was a jacket, trousers, hat, cape and mask, all bright red. There was also a sword, in a red scabbard.

"There!" cried the officer, triumphantly.

Mal could only stare. He was aware of the Scarlet Blade: a vigilante hero from the kind of pulp paperbacks read by rich kids in the Core who wanted a sanitised taste of frontier life. That there was such a person had never occurred to Mal, let alone that he had any connection to him or _Serenity. _

"This is ridiculous," he protested, "Anybody could have planted those!"

The officer sneered. He clicked his fingers again and the militiaman handed him a datapad.

"And who, pray, planted these?" he asked, activating the pad. A series of images appeared on its screen, showing a small cave packed with a variety of objects. They included boxes of medicine, food supplements, bars of gold and other anonymous containers with Alliance markings. One picture, Mal was amazed to see, was of the water pump that had been stolen from him the day before.

"These were discovered in a cave in the northern hills, early this morning," said the officer, "All objects known to have been stolen by the criminal known as the Scarlet Blade. Or, as we should now call him, Malcolm Reynolds."

"What?!" cried Mal.

"Seize him!" snapped the officer. Two militiamen seized Mal and bound his wrists.

"This is ridiculous…!" Shepherd Book began, stepping forward.

"Silence!" shouted the officer, rounding on the rest of the crew, "Do not take me for a fool! We know that the Blade had accomplices. This ship is landlocked, pending further investigation. All crewmembers are confined aboard until further notice, understood?"

Mal saw that Simon had turned his face away from the officer and was trying to convince River to do likewise, but the officer appeared not to recognise them.

"Bring him!" he ordered. The militiamen took Mal by the arms and steered him down the ramp. The other militiamen followed, leaving the crew of _Serenity _standing dumbfounded in the hold.

* * *

Inara strode imperiously across the entrance hall, her face rigid with anger. The guards froze, petrified by her expression. She swept past them and through the doors without so much as a sideways glance.

Governor Quintero was seated behind his desk, a glass of wine halfway to his lips.

"M-my lady?" he stammered.

"Serra. Governor, I demand to know on what grounds you have arrested Captain Malcolm Reynolds."

Inara's trained gaze swept over Governor Quintero. He was a small man, portly, with a grey moustache and the red, blotchy complexion of a man who indulged in too much rich food. A coward, for sure, and one easily intimidated by a show of strength. Using her superb control of her body language and facial expression, Inara contrived to look as regal and dignified as possible. She had dressed to enhance this image: purple and gold, with a high neckline and sweeping cape.

"My-my lady, I must protest –"

"You protest?" Inara scoffed, "You, who have ordered this farce of an arrest?"

"M-my lady, the facts –"

"Facts? You have accused Captain Reynolds of masquerading as a dime novel hero!"

"Ah, I am afraid I must correct you there," said Quintero. He placed his wine glass on the table and settled back into his chair. The corners of his mouth twitched into the merest of smiles.

"Won't you have a seat?" he said, gesturing to a chair.

Inara would have preferred to stand, the better to intimidate Quintero, but there was no way she could refuse without appearing ridiculous.

"Thank you," she said icily.

"You called the Scarlet Blade a dime novel hero," Quintero began, his expression growing smugger by the minute, "That's only a half truth. To prevent a scandal, certain government agencies decided that it would be prudent to… suppress news concerning his activities by giving them the appearance of popular fiction."

"So he is real?"

"After a fashion. As I said, certain government agencies felt that the Blade's activities; stealing government property, attacking government facilities, and the like, would incite other citizens of the Allied Planets to similar crimes. So, the Blade was romanticised as a true Alliance patriot, fighting against corrupt individuals."

"Like yourself, for instance?" said Inara. Quintero bridled at this but Inara soothed him with a smile.

"Names were changed for the stories," Quintero said, uncomfortably, "Even Tiger's Eye; they are set on a fictional planet. It worked too. Most offworlders, like yourself, think the Blade is romantic nonsense. Ha! Half of the peasants on Tiger's Eye think he's only a myth, but he's been plaguing me for years. And now I've finally caught him…"

"Governor, this is ridiculous," said Inara, in a tone suggesting an exasperated mother speaking to a particularly stupid child, "Captain Reynolds is not a crim – I mean, he's not a vigilante."

"My lady Serra, Captain Pasquale found the Blade's costume aboard Captain Reynold's ship…"

"A ship I myself have been living aboard for over a year now. Are you suggesting, governor, that I was party to these criminal activities?" said Inara, sounding as dignified as possible.

"Of course not," said Quintero, becoming flustered, "Wouldn't dream of… Not a respectable Companion, like yourself. But the crew is under suspicion, nevertheless… Accessories and all that…"

"Governor, has it occurred to you that someone could have planted that costume there to frame Captain Reynolds?" Inara asked, voice straining with patient indulgence.

"It has."

"Then why –"

"That still leaves the cache of loot that was reported to us this morning," said Quintero, "All items stolen by the Scarlet Blade."

"Reported? By whom?"

"A concerned citizen," said Quintero with a shrug, "It was an anonymous tip."

"But there is still nothing to link Captain Reynolds to – "

"DNA traces were found in the cave, matching those Captain Pasquale's analysts took from Captain Reynold's own cabin," said Quintero, "And his fingerprints were found on many of the stolen items."

Inara paused, lost for words, while across the desk, Quintero smiled a self-satisfied smile.

"I'm afraid that all sounds awfully convincing, m'dear."

Both Inara and Quintero turned towards the door. Don Andres de la Vega was lounging against the post, splendid in a suit of pale pink and cream.

"Andres, what --?" Inara began.

"M'dear, I was worried for you," said Don Andres languidly, "Running off without so much as a word."

He stood up and advanced into the office. He was a beautiful young man, from his shapely legs to his carefully trimmed moustache, and he knew it.

"Your Excellency," he said, bowing courteously to Quintero, "Pray tell me, what's all this fuss about? It's too deuced hot to go gallivanting around at this time of the day."

"Captain Reynolds has been arrested on trumped up charges. He's been accused of masquerading as a storybook bandit!" said Inara.

"You mean that ruffian the Scarlet Blade?" said Don Andres mildly, "Well, m'dear, I think when his Excellency makes an arrest he's usually pretty sure he's got the right man."

"It's ridiculous!" snapped Inara, "No court in the galaxy would convict him."

"I'm afraid we will never find out," said Quintero, "You see, the federal government is determined to prevent the truth about the Blade spreading: civil unrest and all that. A public trial is just what they don't want. I have orders to try any suspects by court martial, here on Tiger's Eye. Captain Reynolds hangs in three days."

Inara blanched. She felt like someone had kicked her in the stomach.

"No…" she breathed.

"I'm sorry," said Quintero. His expression was sombre but Inara could see a glint of pleasure in his little black eyes. Hot, boiling anger roared inside her.

"No!" she cried, standing up and thumping her hands on the desk, "You can't!"

"Come, m'dear, I think it's time we were going," said Don Andres, laying a hand on her shoulder.

"I am sorry," Quintero repeated.

Inara cast a final, withering look at him before turning on her heel and sweeping out of the office, Don Andres trailing behind her.

"M'dear, please, the heat!" he protested, dabbing at his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

Inara ignored him. She was busy concentrating on slipping the security pass she had palmed from Quintero's desktop into the folds of her dress.

* * *

"Maybe they carried it aboard with 'em," Jayne suggested, "Wouldn't be the first time the cops have tried to frame somebody."

"No, it was definitely here before they were," said Wash, "I saw them pull it out of that compartment behind the common area."

"So the costume's definitely a plant," said Zoe, apparently oblivious to the stitches that Simon was threading into her wounded leg.

"The question is; how did they sneak it aboard?" said Book.

There was silence in the infirmary as those who had been left aboard while the pump was being delivered to Bodie considered the past two days.

"When you come to think on it, there were lots o' times when someone could have got aboard," said Kaylee slowly.

"It was hot, so we left the ramp down to let the breeze through," said Book,

"And it wasn't like we kept a special watch or anythin'," Wash added.

"They could have been in and out in minutes; maybe less," Jayne growled accusingly.

"Jayne!" said Zoe sharply, "This is no-one's fault."

"I'm curious as to why someone would want to frame the captain," said Simon, washing his bloody hands in the sink.

"He's got plenty of enemies," said Wash with a shrug.

"On Tiger's Eye?" said Kaylee.

"Kinda enemies the cap'n makes don't tend to be this subtle," said Zoe, "If they wanted him dead, they'd just shoot him."

"Wait, who said anything about the cap'n dying?" cried Kaylee, "He's innocent, right? No way they're gonna kill him."

At that moment, the communication panel beside the infirmary door chirped. Wash crossed over and read the display.

"We've got an incoming transmission," he said, puzzled.

"Who'd wanna call us?" Jayne wondered, as the rest of the crew followed Wash up to the cockpit.

Wash took the pilot's seat and activated _Serenity's _main communicator. A grainy image of Inara's face appeared on the display.

"Inara?" Wah said, surprised.

"It's alright, I've heard," said Inara, her voice distorted by the transmission, "I've just returned from the governor's house."

The rest of the crew listened with mounting dismay as she relayed what she had learned from Quintero.

"Where are you now?" asked Zoe.

"At Don Andres's mansion, at Agua Fria," replied Inara, "I haven't much time. I've scrambled the signal but they might detect this transmission at any moment. Simon, do you have your datapad?"

"Yes," said Simon, retrieving it from his pocket.

"Plug it in_. _I'm going to transfer some files I downloaded from the police mainframe, using the governor's security pass."

Simon handed the datapad to Wash. While they waited for the files to transfer, Inara explained what they contained:

"There's a plan of the prison complex where they're holding Mal. It's also where they perform their executions. There's also a plan of Calico, a map of the surrounding country, and a list of all known and suspected black marketers, arms dealers and other criminal tradesmen within a hundred miles of here."

"Thank you," said Zoe.

"I'll do what I can from here," said Inara, "I might be able to find out a little more about who this Scarlet Blade really is."

"Be careful," said Kaylee anxiously.

"You too," said Inara. The image on the display screen vanished.

"It's all very well, her sending us those plans, but we're still stuck on this _s__hee-niou _boat," said Jayne grimly.

"He's right, honey," Wash said, turning to Zoe, "We're still landlocked, and there's got to be a dozen guards outside, at least."

"Getting off _Serenity_ is going to be the easy part," Zoe replied.

"Kaylee_,_" she said, "What've you got that explodes?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Kaylee grasped the frame and pulled herself through the empty window. Lying flat on top of _Serenity's _hull, she shuffled round until she was looking back down into the dining area. Simon was there, waiting to hand the package up to hands brushed as they manoeuvred it onto the hull. Did his hand squeeze hers'? Kaylee had no time to consider the significance of this gesture. The others were waiting on her and every minute was precious. Clutching the package to her with one arm, she wriggled slowly across the hull.

She was thankful that it was a cloudy night. No moon or stars betrayed her movements. The Calico militia had trained floodlights on _Serenity's _cargo ramp but no light had been shone on the top of her hull, where the narrow window looked up from the dining area. Kaylee would rather someone else had gone, and so had Zoe, but she was the only one who could fit through the window. River could have managed it but, as they could not rely on her, Kaylee had gone.

She paused on the edge, where the curve of _Serenity's _'thorax' fell away. Ahead of her was a land of dark, immobile shapes. She listened for the steady tread of a sentry's boots. There were faint sounds to her left, towards the cockpit where the militia had laid their cordon, but ahead and to her right there was silence. She slipped the rope from around her shoulder and attached the magnetic grapnel to the hull. With the package still clutched tightly to her chest, she rappelled, one handed, to the ground.

Now was the most dangerous moment, wriggling inch by inch through the dirt, not daring to raise her head, lest she attract the attention of the sentries mere metres away. The dark shapes ahead became clearer as she approached, taking the form of cargo shuttles and small freighters. Kaylee crawled between the sleeping giants, staying flat on her belly. The dirt was rising in little clouds that tickled her throat. It was a real effort not to sneeze.

It was hard to judge distance in the dark and she nearly crawled headfirst into the fence. It was basic, like most things on Tiger's Eye: seven feet of chicken wire crowned with barbed wire. Carefully placing the package at her feet, Kaylee set to work on the fence with a pair of wire cutters. She only needed a small hole to squeeze through. In less than five minutes she was past the fence and running, bent double, the package grasped to her chest.

Outside the ships' landing area, the streets of Calico were deserted. There was not even a stray dog snuffling in the gutters. Using the now distant light from the militia's floodlights as a guide, Kaylee made her way around the edge of the landing area, away from _Serenity _and towards a row of storehouses. Zoe had shown her their location on the map but, in the dark, the plain, low buildings all looked alike.

Anxious that she was taking too long, Kaylee darted towards a likely looking building. Built from wood, and bordering on another, similar building, it would serve her purpose. An alley ran between the two. Here Kaylee crouched down and unwrapped the package's oilskin cover. It was not the 'verse's most sophisticated bomb; little more than a timer attached to a propane tank, but they had had little time to prepare. She propped the bomb against a wall, gave herself five minutes on the timer and ran back the way she came.

Even though she knew that it was coming, the explosion still made Kaylee jump. As expected, the two buildings went up like bonfires. Yellow flames bathed the surrounding streets in a warm half-light. Kaylee was delighted to see that she had set the bomb on the very row of warehouses she had been searching for. Very soon the fire would spread along the row, perhaps even reaching the neighbouring streets.

Alarms were ringing. People left their houses to stare and ask each other what had caused the fire. A few brave souls even tied to fight it but their buckets were useless against the force of the flames. Militiamen pushed past, drawn away from the landing area trying to try and restore some order on the streets. Kaylee, anonymous in the confusion, made her way through the crowds and towards Calico's central crossroads.

Such was the noise of the crowd and the fire that few people seemed to notice the brief exchange of gunfire that came from the spaceships' landing area. Kaylee waited anxiously on the corner of the empty crossroads, half-hidden in the shadow of a building. The sound of a familiar engine drew her back into the light. _Serenity's _'mule' drew up. Wash was driving, with Jayne and Zoe behind him. Simon and Book rode in the trailer, sheltering River beneath a blanket. Every spare inch of both 'mule' and trailer was covered in boxes of ammunition, spare food, water, fuel and clothing.

"Well done," said Zoe, smiling as Kaylee climbed onto the trailer. Wash pressed the accelerator and both 'mule' and trailer disappeared into the night.

* * *

Inara and Don Andres were in the gardens of Agua Fria, reclining on couches beneath a silk awning. A splendid trio of peacocks wandered aimlessly about the lawns, occasionally dipping their beaks into the irrigation channels to relieve their thirst. Sunlight sparkled cheerfully in the jets from the great fountain and warmed the marble statues standing in it. It was a shabby plot by the standards of the Core Planets but on the barren surface of Tiger's Eye it was luxurious.

Don Andres was wearing a loose turquoise shirt and matching breeches, sipping iced sherbet from a glass. Bewigged and liveried servants, their faces dripping with perspiration, stood close by with more refreshments.

"Inara, my delight, what's wrong? Can I get you something?" he asked, a slight frown creasing his perfect features.

Inara started. She had been staring blankly ahead, lost in her anxious thoughts. She refocused on Don Andres.

"No, darling, I'm quite alright. Really," she said, smiling prettily at him. It was easy for a skilled Companion to throw up such a mask. Inara had become very good at hiding her true feelings.

"I hope you aren't getting too distressed over that space captain fellow," said Don Andres, "He's not worth troubling yourself over."

Inara considered Don Andres. He was a regular client, which was quite rare: she had only half a dozen of them, and they were all special in some way. What was it that drew her to Don Andres? On first acquaintance it was easy to dismiss him as another spoilt aristocrat, made soft and indolent by privilege. He did not ride or shoot or fence; he abhorred physical activity in all its forms. He seemed to drift through life, disinterested in almost everything and everyone. Yet in bed he displayed a passion and intensity that was utterly out of keeping with his usual self. He fascinated Inara. She marvelled at how the man could change in a matter of moments. Which was his true persona: effete dandy or vigorous lover? Did he have to be one or the other?

"I know, darling," she said, feigning agitation, "It's just that… I am in shock. I thought I knew Captain Reynolds, you see? I could never have imagined that he was... was someone like that."

"Of course you didn't," said Don Andres, "That's rather the point of a secret identity."

"I know so little about it all," Inara continued, playing the bewildered ingénue, "What is he supposed to have done?"

"I couldn't really say," said Don Andres, shrugging, "He is a criminal. They don't tend to mix in polite society."

"But you must know something!"

"M'dear, you have spoken to the governor. Didn't he tell you?" Don Andres was becoming irritable.

"A little bit, but he was so unreasonable," said Inara piteously, "I'm sorry but I thought, if I knew what was happening, then I might be able to do something…"

"I'm afraid there's not much you or I can do for Captain Reynolds now."

"But you're a friend of the governor's, aren't you? You could…"

"I have had the honour of dining with His Excellency once or twice, m'dear, nothing more. I have no influence over him, certainly not in this matter. Now, if you'll excuse me, all this talk of criminals has quite fatigued me."

Don Andres rose and returned to the mansion, leaving Inara alone with the servants under the awning. Outwardly, she appeared calm but inwardly she was fuming. She had hoped that she could persuade or manipulate Don Andres to help Mal. If she could not rely on him, she would have to use her own resources.

* * *

The cell door swung open.

"Your confessor, Reynolds," said the guard. A robed friar, his face hidden beneath a cowl, shuffled into the cell. The door closed.

Mal looked up eagerly, hoping to see Book's face beneath the friar's hood. He was disappointed to discover that it was a genuine monk; a portly white man with a pudding bowl haircut.

"I am Fray Felipe," the man announced, "I have come to listen to your confession."

"Not interested," said Mal.

"Please, my son," Fray Felipe implored, "Please, that I may absolve you of your sins before you go to meet Him who sits in judgement on sins."

Mal sighed. The whole situation still seemed surreal to him, from the morning of his arrest to the grotesque mockery of a trial he had received at the court martial. Governor Quintero had presided, leering like a cat faced with a particularly plump mouse. Mal had listened silently as the list of charges had been read out to him: murder, assault, criminal damage, theft of various kinds. To be fair, he had committed similar crimes on a dozen worlds, but not those particular crimes on that particular planet. Captain Pasquale had then read out the evidence against him. He was allowed to make a short statement, which was almost immediately shouted down. He had been provided with no lawyer, no legal council, and no opportunity to present counter-evidence of any kind. The whole business, including the sentence, had taken less than half an hour.

That had been yesterday morning. Now noon had come, and he was to be taken out and hanged. Yet he still had hope.

"I won't confess. I'm not about to die," Mal told the friar, who smiled sadly at him.

"Courage is a virtue, my son, but so is prudence."

"I don't want to confess."

"Please, for the good –"

"No!"

The friar sighed and stood up.

"Then may God have mercy on you, my son," he said, making the sign of the cross.

The door opened and the friar left. Captain Pasquale now entered the cell. His smile was like a crocodile's.

"It is time, Captain Reynolds," he said. He was in full dress uniform, with golden epaulettes and shining leather boots.

"What, no last meal?" said Mal, not rising from the bench.

"On your feet," sneered Pasquale. Mal stood up. He was still wearing the travel stained clothes he had been arrested in. He had been given no toiletries, so he was also unshaven and unwashed. What a way to die, he thought bitterly.

He followed Pasquale into the corridor. A file of militiamen was waiting to escort him to the gallows. Mal glanced under their peaked caps, hoping to perhaps see some of his crew, ready to effect their rescue plan, but the militiamen were all strangers.

Pasquale led the way. Mal followed, hands cuffed behind his back, a militiaman on either arm and six more behind. They climbed a flight of stairs and passed through a thick security door. This led out into a large, dirt floored yard, baking beneath a cloudless sky. The walls were whitewashed, giving off a fierce glare. A wooden gallows had been erected at the near end. A line of militiamen was strung out across the yard, keeping a sullen crowd back from the gallows. They looked like poor, joyless folk but they cheered loudly as Mal appeared and shouted curses at Pasquale and his men. Wonderful, Mal thought, I am a folk hero, just like Jayne. How long beforethe whole crew are the heroes of some God forsaken rock, somewhere in the 'verse?

His eyes swept the crowd again, looking for familiar faces, perhaps carrying long, suspiciously gun-shaped packages, but all he saw was a sea of strangers.

He shook off the militiamen holding his arms and climbed the steps to the gallows alone. He looked attentively at the executioner. For a second he was sure that it was Jayne beneath the mask but then he realised that the man was Chinese. The executioner took his arm and moved him to stand over the trapdoor. The militiamen formed a guard at the foot of the steps, in case any of the angry crowd should break through the first line. Pasquale strode to the edge of the platform. He produced a piece of paper and began to read the sentence of execution, shouting to make himself heard over the crowd.

"Any minute now would be great, guys," Mal muttered, scanning the yard for signs of imminent rescue.

The sentence having been read, the executioner stepped forward and placed a cloth bag over Mal's head. He could see nothing anymore. The sounds of the crowd were muffled. He felt the rope being slipped over his head. The noose tightened around his neck. Someone had started playing a drum roll.

"Any second now," Mal said to himself, genuine panic starting to grip him.

The drum roll stopped suddenly.

"Great rescue, guys!" said Mal.

The trapdoor opened.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_Twenty four hours ago…_

"Once the gates are blown, we move in under cover of the smoke bombs," said Zoe, pointing to the map, "Jayne and I'll go first, followed by Wash and the doctor. We force this door, along this corridor, turn here, and here. We spring the captain and then go back out the way we came. We shoot anybody who gets in our way. Understand?"

There was silence from the crew. They were gathered in an old, worm-eaten miners' hut in the hills above Calico. They had fastened pieces of cloth over the windows to prevent anyone accidently looking in on them. Inside the hut it was stuffy and dark. The only light came from Simon's datapad, which was projecting the map of Calico prison onto a wall. Its glow turned everything in the hut a clinical shade of blue.

"I don't know, honey. It seems a little risky," said Wash tentatively.

"It's downright stupid, is what it is," said Jayne, for whom tact was as alien a concept as charitable donations or regular bathing.

"If you men are too scared to put your necks out for the captain…" Zoe said icily. Wash interjected:

"This isn't some mob boss's hideout. It's a government facility, full of government troops, and they'll be expecting an attack."

"Cap'n wouldn't take us on no suicide mission," Jayne muttered.

"The cap'n ain't here!" Zoe snapped. Her fear for Mal's safety and the pressure of leadership made her sound angrier than she felt. She was not a leader; she never had been. Mal always took charge. She was not used to coming up with plans.

"There's no other way," she continued, forcing herself to speak slowly and calmly, "We don't have a ship; we don't have any friends; but unless we do somethin', the cap'n is gonna hang tomorrow. Even if it is hopeless, I'm gonna try, 'cause I know he'd do the same for me; for any of us."

The crew sat in silence. No one could meet Zoe's cold, uncompromising stare. Then Simon spoke, as if thinking out loud:

"Is that what I think it is?"

Using the controls on his datapad, he changed the map to magnify the area around the gallows.

"What is it, son?" asked Book.

"There," said Simon. He touched a button on the datapad and a layer was stripped away from the map. It showed the subterranean level of the prison, including the condemned cells. Directly beneath the gallows was a small room with a narrow corridor running under the main prison building and joining the main stairwell.

"That's the room where the surgeon waits," Simon explained, "The body is lowered down there after the drop. The surgeon pronounces it dead and then leaves, with the body."

"Why?" asked Kaylee, horrified.

"For, experimentation," said Simon awkwardly, "I read about it in my Medical Ethics class. It's technically illegal but it's a very old custom. Many of the doctors on the border planets still see those corpses as their rightful property."

"So?" said Jayne.

"So, I think I know how we can save the captain," said Simon.

* * *

_Sixteen hours ago…_

Someone was knocking on the door. Doctor Piggott snarled as he put down his untouched brandy.

"Can't give me five minutes peace," he muttered as he crossed over to the door. He was in a bad mood as it was. He had received Governor Quintero's message late last night, informing him of Doctor Roberts's sudden illness and the need for a surgeon at tomorrow's execution. Reorganising his busy schedule at such short notice had been trying enough. Then there was the expense of booking a seat on the Calico stage coach. Doctor Piggott hated travelling. The journey had been very uncomfortable. To make matters even worse, the coach was delayed twice and he had missed dinner at the hotel. He had not even had time to unpack. All he wanted was a quiet drink before going to bed, and even that was being denied to him.

"Well, what is it?" he demanded, wrenching the door open. Two men, dressed in dirty, weather beaten trail gear were standing in the corridor, supporting a girl between them, her face hidden beneath a tattered shawl.

"Are you the doctor, sir?" asked the taller of the two men.

"I am. What do you want, man?"

"Oh Lord sir, I am right glad we found you," the man said, "Y'see our Mary, sir, she come over all funny, sir. We were all afraid for her, on account that she's only just recovered from the lung fever, sir. Then some folks told us this genu-ine physician had taken a room in the hotel, an' we just knew we had to get her to you quick."

"This is preposterous," snapped Piggott, "I am not some vagabond sawbones. Do you think my skills are free to any mongrel that happens to crawl onto my doorstep? I am an accredited physician! If you need the benefit of my skills, and can afford it, you should contact by secretary in Helena. Good night to you!"

Piggott began to shut the door. The taller man grabbed it and held it open.

"I'm afraid we're gonna have to insist, doc'," he said. Piggott frowned, looked down and saw that the second man was covering him with a pistol.

"Now don't you make a sound," said the tall man, "Or you're gonna needing an accredited physician of your own."

Piggott backed into his room, eyes riveted to the pistol. The two men followed. The girl in the shawl remained at the door, watching the corridor.

The taller man now drew his own pistol from within his jacket.

"Sit down," he said, motioning Piggott into the chair.

"That looks like a nice brandy," the man said meaningfully. Piggott poured the man a glass but his hands were trembling so violently that he spilled even more on the carpet.

"Damn, that's good," said the tall man, taking a sip.

"Hey doc', take your time," he said to his companion, who had holstered his pistol and was now rifling through Piggott's suitcase.

Piggott sat mute, unable to tear his eyes away from the pistol, while one of the men drank his brandy and the other searched his belongings.

"Got them," the shorter man said, holding up Piggott's security pass and identification cards.

"Any pictures on 'em?" the tall man asked.

"Yes, one, but it's not exactly sophisticated. We should be able to switch it."

"Good. Clean up here, then you and Kaylee get out down the backstairs. I'll deal with this one," said the taller man. The shorter man nodded and began bundling clothes back into the suitcase. Piggott saw him and the girl disappearing down the corridor while the taller man was manhandling him towards the en-suite bathroom.

He tied Piggott's hands with his own belt and gagged him with his handkerchief, then sat him on the toilet. Satisfied that Piggott was secure, the tall man then locked the door from the inside. Piggott cringed as the man turned back but, to his immense relief, the man holstered his gun.

"Hope you're comfy, 'cause you're in for a long wait," said the man, "Should be past lunchtime 'fore anyone thinks to look in on you."

He turned on the shower and, displaying a flexibility that was surprising in such a big man, climbed out of the small bathroom window.

It was only then that Doctor Piggott finally passed out.

* * *

_Half an hour ago…_

Wash peered round the corner. The gate leading into the prison yard was surrounded by a mob of people, pushing and jostling to get a better view. Wash had seen enough crowds in his time to know that these people were one thrown stone away from a riot. There was little shouting but lots of subdued muttering that threatened to swell into a roar at any moment. A group of militiamen were on the low wooden tower that overlooked the gate, peering fearfully down at the crowd. No one was looking at the prison building.

Wash turned and waved to Jayne, giving him the all clear. Jayne jogged out of the alley. He had a rope ladder curled under one arm and a rucksack on his back. His favourite gun, Vera, was slung over one shoulder. Wash's gaze swept back and forth one last time. The streets around the prison were deserted. Every man, woman and child in Calico was trying to get into the prison yard. They all wanted to tell their grandchildren that they had been there, to see their hero die.

The prison building was unimpressive, even by frontier standards: a two storey building with white washed walls and a slate roof. The shutters had been opened on account of the midday heat. Every window was barred. Wash and Jayne were standing beneath the broad, west face of the building. The yard was on the far side, and the main door was in the north face. No sentries had been posted to watch the west.

It was the work of moments for Wash and Jayne to reach the roof. First, Jayne knelt down so that Wash could stand on his shoulders. Jayne then stood up, lifting Wash until he could grab one of the broad beam ends that protruded from beneath the slates. Once Wash had hauled himself onto the roof, Jayne tossed up one end of the rope ladder, which Wash made fast to the beam end. Jayne then followed him up, carrying both rifle and rucksack.

Crawling on their bellies, the two men slithered up the roof until they could peek over the central ridge and into the yard below. A line of militiamen had been spread out to keep the crowd back from the gallows. The masked executioner was already up there, checking the noose and the trapdoor. Wash glanced over at the tower, terrified that someone might spot them, but the militiamen's attention was entirely given over to the crowd.

Jayne grabbed Wash's shoulder and pushed him back behind the central ridge.

"Ain't no need for you to be lookin'," he said, "Just sit tight."

Wash lay back on the slates and tried not to count the minutes off on his wristwatch. It was painfully hot on the roof; roasted by the sun and fried on the hot slates. Wash was a naturally talkative man and became even more so when nervous. To him, lying in silence was like being starved. Without even realising it, his hands began to tap out a rhythm on the slates.

"Stop that!" Jayne snarled, "You wanna knock of them off, bring a guard lookin'?"

Wash gave him an embarrassed smile and concentrated on trying to lie still. Ordinarily, Zoe would have been up there with Jayne but she could not climb very well with her wounded leg and, with Book watching over River back at the hut, Wash was the only crewmember remotely suitable for the job.

Searching for something to occupy his mind, he watched Jayne checking over Vera. Before they had left, he had covered all her reflective surfaces in boot blacking so that she would not catch the sun and attract attention. It was really quite fascinating to watch the care with which Jayne handled his gun. He was almost gentle with it; more gentle than he was with most human beings. Although Wash usually considered Jayne little more than a meathead, he was impressed at the deftness with which he handled Vera. When it came to guns, Jayne was probably brighter than either Mal and Zoe.

"Showtime," Jayne hissed. The noise of crowd swelled. Wash pulled himself up and looked down into the yard. Captain Pasquale had just entered, golden epaulettes blazing in the sun. Mal followed, pale and filthy, walking between two lines of militiamen. The crowd cheered to see him. They jeered Pasquale and his men.

Mal was climbing the steps to the gallows. Jayne rested Vera on the central ridge of slates and peered into the scope. He reached up, adjusted some dials, and looked into the scope again. He repeated the action five or six times in quick succession. Down on the gallows, Pasquale had finished reading the sentence of execution. The executioner was placing the bag over Mal's head. He had crossed over to the lever that released the trapdoor. Jayne crouched low, eye fixed to the scope, finger poised over the trigger. Wash held his breath, blinking furiously to keep the sweat that was running down his forehead out of his eyes. Everything rested on the next few seconds. If Jayne's timing was out, even by the merest fraction, Mal was a dead man.

The executioner pulled the lever. The trapdoor opened beneath Mal. Jayne squeezed the trigger. Vera barked. The bullet zipped through the air, over the heads of the crowd, over the militia, over the executioner and cut the rope, six inches above Mal's head. The trapdoor open, Mal plunged from view, leaving two feet of tattered rope hanging limply from the beam.

* * *

Mal's ankle buckled beneath him as he hit the hard, dirt floor. He was completely baffled. One moment, the trapdoor was beneath him and the next he was lying on the ground. What had happened to the rope? He could hear muffled sounds through the bag. Feet were moving around him. Then the bag was torn from his head and he could see.

He was lying in a bare, windowless cell. Directly above him was the open trapdoor; a square of perfect blue sky, bisected by the gallows beam. Simon was standing over him, covering a sergeant of the militia with a pistol. A badge on Simon's jacket identified him as 'Surgeon Doctor Q. Piggot'.

"And now his hands!" Simon ordered, his strained voice just shy of a falsetto. The sergeant bent down and hastily unlocked Mal's cuffs. Mal got to his feet, winced as he tried to put weight on his injured ankle and then floored the sergeant with a punch. Simon bent down and retrieved the man's ring of keys.

"Cutting it pretty fine, aren't you?" Mal said.

"We'll try to be earlier next time," Simon replied, giving Mal his shoulder.

They crossed the cell and through the only available door. Here, Simon turned and used the keys to lock the door behind them. Then, leaving Mal leaning against the wall, he ran along the corridor to the far door. First he locked it, then he produced a strip of auto-seal from his jacket. Laying it along the crack, over the bolt, he ripped the top layer away to unleash the chemical reaction that welded door and doorframe together.

"Err… wouldn't that be our way out you just shut?" Mal asked. The only other portal in the corridor was a narrow window, fitted with thick iron bars.

* * *

There was chaos down in the prison yard. The crowd was fighting with itself: the people at the front, having heard the gunshot, were trying to get out, while the people at the back, who had not, were still trying to get in. Some turned and tried to push past the militiamen, who were being urged up to the gallows by Captain Pasquale.

Bullets whizzed over Wash's head as the militiamen in the tower finally realised where the shot had come from. Wash and Jayne slid down the slate roof. Jayne seized the rucksack, tore it open and flung a costume at Wash. They found it quite difficult to change while lying on a sloping surface but in less than a minute he and Jayne were both resplendent in matching red capes, jackets and cavalier hats.

"Go!" Jayne shouted, pointing to the rope ladder. Wash nodded and slid down to the edge of the roof, dislodging several slates and sending them tumbling to the street below.

"_Gao yang jong duh goo yang!" _Wash grunted as he untangled his cape from his feet.

"Hurry it up!" Jayne yelled.

Wash swung himself over and scrambled down the rope ladder as fast as he could. A crowd had already gathered beneath him, fleeing from the prison yard. They whooped and applauded to see Wash in his red cape and hat.

A whistle blew away to his right. A group of militiamen were coming round the corner of the building. The sergeant shouted for Wash to stop but he was already running. The crowd parted before him and closed behind him just as quickly.

Now Jayne dropped to the ground. His costume was really too small for him but it was all the crew had been able to make at such short notice. The crowd stared and muttered to one another, bewildered. The sergeant stood, frozen for a moment by indecision, then shrugged and shouted for Jayne to stop. Jayne ignored him and rushed off in the opposite direction that Wash had taken, the crowd parting and closing up just as they had done for Wash. Regardless of who these two men were, the governor's men wanted them and that was enough to endear them to the people of Tiger's Eye.

The sergeant screamed abuse at the crowd and divided his men up. More militiamen were coming up, headed by a lieutenant but the situation had become hopelessly confused, with everybody convinced that they had seen the Scarlet Blade flee in a different direction. Parties of militiamen were formed and the streets ordered to be cleared but it was a pointless exercise. Wash and Jayne had already reached the horses they had known would be waiting for them and were galloping for the town limits.

* * *

A rope was flung through window, into the corridor. Simon grabbed it and, standing on tiptoes, lashed it to one of the bars. Another rope followed, which he tied to the next bar.

"Stand back, captain," said Simon, moving as far down the corridor as he could. Mal crouched back against the door. He could hear an engine revving outside and tires growling in the dirt. The window bars groaned. The plaster around them began to crack. Whole chunks dropped away. The noise of the engine grew louder. The bars squeaked. Now they were squealing.

They gave way without warning, in a crash of dust and falling plaster.

"Quick!" Simon said, motioning Mal to join him at the newly made breach.

"Hiya, cap'n!" said Kaylee, peering through at them. Over her shoulder, Mal could see Zoe sitting on _Serenity's_ 'mule', the two ropes lying in the dust behind it like thin tails.

With Kaylee holding his arms and Simon supporting his legs, Mal was able to wriggle through the breach with only a little discomfort.

"Nice job," Mal said as Kaylee helped him to the 'mule', "but what about the militia?"

"All taken care of, sir," said Zoe, grinning.

"Hurry, I think they've brought welding torches to the door," said Simon as he joined them, having managed to squeeze through the window by himself. Zoe nodded. With Mal, Kaylee and Simon seated safely behind her, she turned the 'mule' about and headed down the street, away from the prison and the confused crowd of citizens and militiamen that was forming on the west side of the building.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"_Multiple sightings… Unconfirmed… Unidentified motor vehicle… County-wide search… All personnel on alert… No sightings as of 2100 hours…"_

Inara closed Captain Pasquale's latest report. She smiled. The others had not told her the details of their rescue plan and she had spent yesterday in a state of nervous exhaustion. She had excused herself from Don Andres' company, pleading heatstroke, but she had not dared log on to the government database until late that evening, fearing that she would alert the militia to the rescue attempt.

The relief that she felt knowing that Mal was now safe was fleeting. With the rescue completed, she was now forced to return to the frustrating task of investigating the real Scarlet Blade. Finding reports about him was not a problem: he had his own case file on the government database.

There was a definite pattern to his actions. He always targeted Alliance buildings or personnel; never civilians. They were brief but spectacular operations and the Blade was always highly visible, in the centre of the action. This appeared to be deliberate, like the leading man standing upstage of the lesser actors. There was also a profit motive: most of the Blade's crimes were lucrative, either in cash or valuable goods.

That much was obvious. Solid information about the man himself was rare, and often contradictory. That he was a man was certain; his voice had been heard on multiple occasions. He was variously described by different witnesses as strikingly tall, remarkably short, both fair and dark, with white, black and Hispanic skin. He rode a horse of every colour possible, appeared in a cloud of smoke and could walk through walls. Inara had spent many fruitless hours trying to sift fact from fancy. There was no indication where the Blade operated from; he had committed crimes all across Tiger's Eye. All that she could be sure of was that he was a real man, highly intelligent and a very talented criminal.

She brought up the list of the Blade's appearances on the computer and began to cycle through, thinking that perhaps there was a key case file she had overlooked. The files soon began to blur into one. It was late and the warm air was making her sleepy. She was in her private suite at Agua Fria, using the personal computer intended for browsing the Cortex or playing music. Don Andres thought that she was still recovering from heatstroke. She would not see him until breakfast, at the earliest.

She tried to concentrate on the case files, rubbing her palms into her eyes to try and stave off sleep. She sighed and lent back in her chair. Perhaps it was time to stop for the night? She made a note of the date of the next case file.

She paused, her finger poised to deactivate the screen. She frowned. Why was that date familiar? She drew up her own itinerary and placed it alongside the Scarlet Blade's case files. As a smuggling ship, _Serenity _kept no log, but the Companions' Guild required its members to keep records of all their engagements. The dates matched, almost exactly. Every time she had visited Tiger's Eye, the Scarlet Blade had appeared, almost within a day or two. The Blade's career stretched back further than her visits but Inara suspected that those dates would correspond with _Serenity's _visits too; the crew had been working jobs on Tiger's Eye for years.

Inara could feel the chill of suspicion trickling down into her stomach. Someone had been consciously, deliberately planning their crimes to coincide with Mal's time on that planet. He had not just been framed; he had been setup over a period of years. At first he had been offered petty jobs, not too many or he would become suspicious, but enough to make him a regular visitor to Tiger's Eye. Then, just over a year ago, he had acquired a registered Companion. Getting _Serenity _to visit was now simplicity itself for a wealthy man.

Inara realised that she was now standing up. What should she do? Call the law? She had no evidence, as yet. She had to be sure, or she would have to explain why she was investigating the Scarlet Blade in the first place, and that could bring the militia down on the rest of the crew. She had to be certain.

Activating the computer's communication software, Inara called up Simon's datapad. The computer chirped to itself for a few minutes. The screen filled with a grainy, jerking picture of Simon's face.

"Inara?" he said. He looked concerned.

"Simon, can you hear me?"

"Yes, go ahead."

"Is Mal there? Is he --?"

"He's fine. His ankle is a bit swollen but it's not serious. We've just arrived back at the hideout. Is something wrong?"

"Simon, I think I've found out who the Scarlet Blade is. I… I think it's Don Andres, my client!"

"Your… what?"

The picture blurred as the datapad changed hands. Now Mal's pale, sleepless face appeared on the screen.

"Inara, what's happening?"

"It's Don Andres, my client. I think he's the Blade; he's been setting you up to take the fall for his crimes. I compared the police records to my own. It fits! I –"

"My, aren't you clever?"

Inara spun round. Don Andres was standing in the doorway, holding a sword.

"Move away from the computer," he ordered, levelling the point at her.

Inara stood up and moved slowly back from the computer. Don Andres advanced into the room, keeping his sword raised. There was none of the dandy in him now; no languidness in his movements or expression.

"Captain Reynolds?" he said turning to the computer screen. His sword's point did not stray from Inara's throat.

"Who the hell are you?" Mal asked. Don Andres grinned. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

"Do you know, this is the first time that I've seen your face?" he said, "Curious, isn't it?"

"If you hurt her –"

"Please! You must know how this works! She's my hostage. You're going to come to Agua Fria, unarmed and alone. If you don't, _then _I will hurt her. You have until dawn, captain."

Don Andres reached over and turned off the computer.

"_Tah mah duh hwoon dahn_," Inara snarled.

"M'dear, please, there's no need to be vulgar," Don Andres said, smiling, "Especially when I wish to thank you. Your friends' heroics very nearly derailed my plan. You have just helped me put it back on course."

* * *

The mansion gates were open when Mal arrived, an hour before sunup. The sky was a pale purple, draped with dark tattered clouds. He left the 'mule' at the foot of the driveway and approached on foot. His ankle, though still sore, had all but recovered from his fall from the gallows. There were no lights in the mansion's many windows. No faces looked down on Mal as he climbed the smooth, chalk path. It appeared deserted.

One of the front doors had been left ajar. Mal slipped through. It was warm in the spacious entrance hall. Portraits of long dead de la Vega's gazed down at him from the walls. A chandelier, unlit, hung overhead. Ahead, opposite the doors, a stone staircase curved up to the second floor. Don Andres stood at its head, resting casually on the balustrade.

"Promptly done, captain," he called down, "You are unarmed?"

Mal pulled back the edges of his coat to show that he was not wearing a pistol.

"Where's Inara?" he asked.

"This way, if you please," said Don Andres, turning away.

Mal followed, cautiously. At the top of the stairs was a wide, richly decorated corridor. The lamps had all been deactivated, making it very dark. The only light came from an open door ahead. Mal approached, hugging the far wall. As he drew level with the open door he could see that on the far side lay a long gallery. Don Andres was standing by a table, a little way back from the door. He motioned for Mal to come inside.

The gallery was even longer than it had appeared from the corridor. It appeared to run the length of the mansion. It was a plain room, especially when compared with the ostentation of the entrance hall: a bare wooden floor, white walls and lined with only a handful of tasteful decorations.

"Wine?" said Don Andres, offering Mal a glass. A decanter and a spare glass stood on the table beside him, along with two naked short swords.

"Where's Inara?" Mal repeated, ignoring the glass.

"She's quite safe, I can assure you," said Don Andres. He looked young and athletic, which was exactly what Mal did not feel.

"I congratulate you on your escapade at the prison," Don Andres continued, "Pasquale must have been furious! I couldn't have done it better myself."

"I'll be sure to tell my crew," said Mal.

"I'm afraid you won't get the chance. I've already alerted the good captain. He will be here within the hour, and I doubt he'll trouble himself with the niceties of a court martial before he kills you."

"You called the law? Aren't you worried that they'll search your house; find you out?" Mal asked, playing for time as he tried to think of some way to disable Don Andres. The only weapons in sight were the two short swords. He was still six paces from the table; there was no way he could reach the swords before Don Andres.

"Why would they search it? Even if you were tell them everything you know, which is little enough, who are they going to believe? The wanted criminal or the respected gentleman, whose lineage stretches back to Earth-that-was? Not that you're going to be able to tell the good captain anything by the time he arrives."

"You're gonna kill me?"

"Exactly," said Don Andres, grinning like a schoolboy proposing a particularly daring prank, "The escaped criminal breaks into the helpless civilian's home to meet his accomplice, the high-class whore. The civilian, discovering a hitherto untapped reserve of strength, springs into action, slays the criminal and saves the day. The militia arrive to discover the criminal's body. Your doxy gets a rope around her neck and I get the acclaim. Ha! That'll give those hack writers something to put into their two-bit stories!"

"So this is all a set-up? You're gonna frame me as your own secret identity."

"Right. You see, I'm tired of adventures. Oh, it was all good fun in the early days: the peasants loved me, and I had fun snubbing my nose at that idiot Quintero. But now I've stolen enough to retire to the Core. Here's to growing old disgracefully, in decadence and debauchery!" Don Andres cried, raising his wine glass in a toast.

"So I looked for a way to get out; tie up all the loose ends before I left," he continued, "You were the perfect patsy: ex-Independent, small-time crook with a huge problem with authority. You'd be amazed how easy it is to frame a man. All you need is a bit of ingenuity and a whole lot of money."

"Then what's with the swords? Why not just shoot me while I was walking up the drive?" Mal asked, suspecting that he already knew the answer.

"Because I'm a sporting man, captain," said Don Andres, grinning, "I couldn't deny you a fighting chance."

"You son – What is all this to you; one big game?!" Mal cried.

"Of course it is," Don Andres replied. Mal was horrified. How many people had died because for this young man's amusement, he wondered? This spoilt, arrogant young man saw nothing wrong with using other people as pieces in his deadly little games.

"Come, captain, let's be at it," said Don Andres, picking up one of the swords and walking a little way down the gallery. Mal stalked forward and snatched up the other sword.

"You will find it helpful to remove your coat," said Don Andres. Mal scowled but slipped off his faded brown army coat all the same. Don Andres, who was wearing tight white breeches and a loose shirt, was busy making experimental lunges to stretch his legs. Mal made a half-hearted cut at the air and tried to recall something, anything that Inara had taught him about swordplay the night before his duel with Atherton Wing, almost a year ago. Always swing from the shoulder: that was right, wasn't it?

"_En garde, _Captain Reynolds," said Don Andres, sliding gracefully into the classic fencer's stance: side-on, knees bent, back foot at a right angle to the front, sword arm extended, free arm held out behind for balance. Mal did not even attempt to copy him and simply held the sword out in front of him. He reckoned that if he could make Don Andres swing and miss, he could grapple with him and disarm him. Mal was the taller and heavier built of the pair, and would probably have the advantage in a brawl.

Don Andres stepped forward, sliding silently across the wooden floor. Mal raised his sword, ready to parry. Don Andres's sword point flickered, too fast for Mal to follow. In desperation he flailed at where he thought Don Andres's blade was. His sword cut the defenceless air. Don Andres lunged. He struck Mal on the top of the head with the flat of his sword.

"Captain Reynolds! Please, you must at least _try_," he said, as if addressing an obstinate child.

_"Chur ni-duh_!" Mal growled, raising his sword again. Don Andres stepped back and came _en garde_ again.

Mal turned at the sound of running feet. Inara rushed through the door and into the gallery, coming to a halt beside him. Mal was not sure what surprised him most: her sudden appearance, that she was holding a sword of her own or that she was wearing nothing but a gauzy shift that left very little to the imagination. Don Andres recovered his voice before Mal did:

"Y-you! How did you escape?!"

"Rope tricks are one of the first things a Companion learns at the Academy," said Inara coolly, "You of all people should know that, Andres."

"Wh – you… you do that?" Mal squeaked.

"Mal, _please, _this really isn't the time," Inara replied, rolling her eyes.

"Out of my way," Don Andres ordered, turning his sword on Inara, "Don't think I won't hurt you."

"You can try," said Inara, smiling.

"Have it your way," replied Don Andres, grinning. This was just part of the game to him.

He stepped forward, a contemptuous smirk on his lips. His point flickered left, right and then forward. Inara's blade twirled. There was a complex whirl of blades that Mal could not follow, then Don Andres stepped back, clutching his sword arm with his free hand. When he drew it back, the palm was red with blood.

"_Jien huo!" _he shouted. Inara's smile was cold and savage. Don Andres came back _en garde _and lunged at her in a single, fluid movement. Mal leapt aside with a yell as Inara's parry and riposte sent her sword point whistling past his ear. He retreated to the side of the gallery, watching in awed fascination as Don Andres and Inara set to.

Mal had been in more brawls than he could remember and he had seen a few stage fights at the theatre. This resembled neither. On the stage, the actors cut at one another with their swords, slapping the blades together to make an impressive sound. Don Andres and Inara attacked with the point, lunging and thrusting at one another, catching their opponent's blade on their guard or batting it aside with their own. It was all too fast and intricate for Mal to follow. Their arms hardly moved: all the movement was in the wrists and the fingers. He did not so much see the fight as hear it.

_Clack – clack – clack clack clack_

Don Andres caught Inara's point in the angle between his guard and his blade. He moved his arm in a circle, attempting to push Inara's point away and leave her defenceless.

_Clack – Swish _

Inara stepped back, disengaged her blade and lunged at Don Andres' vulnerable sword arm. His arm came back. Another furious exchange of parry and riposte followed.

_Clack clack clack – clack – clack clack – clack – clack clack – clack clack_

Mal stared, equally fascinated by the speed of the fight and the sight of Inara's long, shapely legs dancing back and forth along the gallery. He shook himself out of the stupor and looked around for someway that he could help. His eye fell on a Chinese vase standing on a pedestal. Mal snatched it up and bowled it over arm, aiming for Don Andres's head. The vase fell short, passing between Don Andres and Inara to shatter against the far wall.

"Stay out of this!" they both cried, rounding on Mal, before instantly resuming their fight.

Mal could not follow their technical swordplay but it was not difficult to read Don Andres's expression. He was livid with Inara, both for interrupting him and for proving such a strong opponent. One of his toys had rebelled and was refusing to play his game. His face, red and glistening with sweat, contorted into a snarl. He hammered at Inara's sword, using his greater size and muscle to overpower her. Inara fell back, feet gliding backwards along the gallery while her sword continued to flash between parry and riposte.

_Clack clack clack – clack clack – clack – clack clack clack clack_

Mal followed, the breath caught in his throat, as Don Andres forced Inara back, out of the door and into the corridor beyond. They were both tiring now. Their movements were less precise; their attacks and parries were becoming wilder and more desperate.

They fought along the corridor to the head of the stairs. Here Don Andres shifted his position, manoeuvring himself so that Inara's only escape route was down the staircase. She took it, going backwards, still fencing. The stairs were too narrow for Mal to follow. He was forced to stand at the balustrade and watch as she and Don Andres descended.

_Clack clack – clack clack clack – clack clack – clack_

At about the halfway step, Inara missed her footing. Her sword was bound up with Don Andres's. She teetered, free arm waving frantically. Don Andres, the finer points of fencing forgotten, put his shoulder down and shoved. Inara spun over, hit the stair below hard and rolled to the ground. Don Andres followed, panting heavily. Inara's sword lay abandoned on the staircase.

Mal took in the situation at a glance. There was no way he would reach the bottom of the staircase before Don Andres. Only one course of action was left to him. Taking a few steps back, he ran across the landing and launched himself over the balustrade. His grasping hands caught the frame of the chandelier. The antique fixture swung forward. Mal was just about to let go when the chandelier's age, and the simple fact that it had not been designed to bear the weight of a fully grown man, betrayed him. The chain suspending it from the ceiling snapped with a '_plink' _and both Mal and the chandelier plummeted to the ground in a shower of plaster.

Don Andres stopped and stared, baffled. This was all the time Inara needed. She sprang up, ignoring the pain in her side where she had fallen, and planted a firm kick in Don Andres's crotch. Don Andres moaned and doubled up. His grip loosened on his sword. Inara's arm shot out, snatched it from his unresisting hand and turned it round. The narrow blade slid smoothly into Don Andres thigh. He screeched and collapsed onto the stairs, clutching his leg.

"Mal! Mal?" Inara cried, hurrying over the mound of twisted wood and metal that had once been a chandelier. Mal was eventually able to extricate himself, with a great deal of coughing and swearing. He was white from plaster dust and quite badly bruised, but not seriously hurt.

"What have I… told you… about… trying to defend me?" Inara asked breathlessly. Mal laughed. He looked down at her. Her hair was tangled and unwashed. She was wearing no makeup and was bathed in sweat, which was making her shift cling to her in a very distracting way. He had never seen her so beautiful. He stepped toward her, hands reaching for her.

"Hands up! Nobody move!"

Mal and Inara turned. Grey-coated militiamen were pouring through the open front doors. Captain Pasquale was at their head, a drawn sabre in his hand.

"Captain Reynolds, you are hereby bound by – What has happened here?!"

Don Andres tried to speak but could only moan.

"Captain Pasquale," said Inara, addressing him in a most dignified manner, "Don Andres de la Vega is the true identity of the Scarlet Blade and has framed Captain Reynolds for his crimes. He has confessed to the crime in my presence. If you search his mansion, I believe you will find all the evidence you should need."

Captain Pasquale opened his mouth as if to say something, then deflated in the face of Inara's commanding stare.

"Arrest that man, and get him to a surgeon," he snapped, pointing to Don Andres, "Captain Reynolds, you will remain here. You are still under suspicion –"

"I'm going back to my ship," said Mal wearily, "If you want me, I'll be there. It's not like I'm going anywhere: you've still got it landlocked."

Captain Pasquale bridled but Inara silenced him without another stare.

"Come on, hero," she said, giving Mal her shoulder, "Time we got you home."

"Shiny," said Mal, as they staggered towards the front doors.

THE END

* * *

_Author's note: I could not end this story without acknowledging my debt to the film _The Mark of Zorro _(1940). Fans will not doubt have recognised the characters Don de la Vega (whose descendent Andres_ _is, sadly, far less heroic), Governor Quintero, Captain Pasquale and Fray Felipe. _


End file.
